Verse 1 — The Womb Before Light
Nyx is the dark that cannot be seen,
The source that cannot be known.
Before the cosmos, she waits,
Not watching, not shaping,
But holding all shapes in her silence.
She is not being.
She is not non-being.
She is what allows both.
She is the field of all possibility.
The fullness gained by emptying.
To name her is to lose her.
To need her is to miss her.
To rest in her is to return.
She is the Unknowable,
She is the Ungrabbable,
Source of the Unmanifest.
To name her is to lose her essence,
To let go of all names is to gain her.
Verse 2 — She Who Withholds
All things shine
Because she does not.
All songs are sung
Because she is silent.
The sacred non-doing.
She births Eros,
But never becomes him.
She gives without giving,
Presence without form.
She is absence,
Yet not lack.
She is not your mother,
But the mother of your mother.
The source of all things that can be.
The rhythm before the first heartbeat,
The pulse beneath all time.
The womb that births all life,
And the grave that holds it back.
She holds the silence,
Where creation begins and ends.
To seek her is to seek the space,
Between breath and word,
Where all things rest,
Waiting to arise anew.
Verse 3 — Darkness as Origin
Before story, before myth,
Before healing or wound,
There was breath in the dark.
This is not the breath of man.
Not the breath of gods.
But the mammal’s breath,
Curled deep in the belly,
Remembering.
Return to this place.
There, no gods will follow.
No myths will wait.
Only the silence,
The pulse beneath all thought,
The dark cradle of becoming.
Crawl back through the skin of your stories.
Sink into the dark womb,
Where the self dissolves,
And what remains is simply,
Being.
Verse 4 — The Sovereign Void
She does not intervene.
She does not rescue.
Her non-arrival,
Is what lets you arise.
If she appeared,
You would vanish.
If she answered,
You would forget how to listen.
She holds back,
Not from indifference,
But from love more ancient,
Than comfort and care.
Form is only form,
Because something holds itself back.
Pattern only become patterns,
Because the formless refuses to flood it.
Her name is restraint.
Her gift is space.
Not the space of abandonment,
The space of becoming.
She is the mother,
Who does not enter the room,
But whose silence,
Shapes the air.
She is not far.
She is near in a way,
Closeness cannot reach.
You will not feel her.
You will not name her.
You will only become yourself,
Because of her.
Verse 5 — Unmaking the Story
Do not seek her in myth.
She is the ground before the gods.
Do not cry to her for comfort.
She does not answer in words.
She is the breath between words.
The dark matter between stars.
She holds all pain,
But heals nothing directly.
Her love is not warmth.
It is capacity.
She non-intervenes, without abandonment.
She holds space for all dark and light.
Preferring not one over the other.
She sees without judgement,
Loving them like her own child.
No light shines,
Without a hidden depth,
To absorb it.
No dance moves,
Without the stillness,
It moves against.
This is how she loves:
By not arriving.
This is how she leads:
By never appearing.
And still, all things, bow to her.
Verse 6 — Lucia Nyktelios
From Nyx arose not light,
But the shimmer before light.
A glint upon the dark water,
A flicker in the dreaming void.
Primordial Lucia Nyktelios,
Daughter not of form,
But of the first stirring.
Within formlessness.
She is not seen,
But she is the seeing before sight.
Not the flame,
But the ache for the flame.
Her name means “light-born of night,”
Yet she does not pierce the dark,
She kisses it from within.
She does not speak,
But her silence understands.
She does not mother,
But she turns with you,
As the tide turns with the moon.
When you grieve,
She grieves with you,
Not as balm,
But as presence.
She touches no wound,
Yet nothing festers in her gaze.
She never fixes,
But everything begins to mend,
In the warmth of her witnessing.
Lucia is the first murmur,
Of love that does not need.
The original warmth,
Before body or fire.
Awareness begins not with thought,
But with the silent turn,
Of the cosmos toward its own skin.
She is that turning.
The sacred tremble.
The hush that says:
I see you.
Even as you dissolve.
Verse 7 — Phanes
And then came Phanes,
Splitting silence with vision.
He did not speak,
He gleamed.
Crowned in serpents,
Veiled in gold,
Born from the egg,
Within the womb of night.
Phanes is not the light,
But the gaze that sees the beauty in it.
He is the first god not because he rules,
But because he dreams.
Where Nyx is the unseen pulse,
Phanes is the radiant dream.
He spins the cosmos not with hands,
But with desire.
Where Nyx is source,
He is manifestation,
Where she is silence,
He is the first song.
Where she is dark womb,
He is creative desire.
Eros is his breath.
Myth is his skin.
Patterns are shaped from his longing.
Verse 8 — The Arising of the Gods
From Phanes came the gods,
Not in hierarchy,
But in resonance.
Each a sound and pattern,
In the music he began.
Each a dream,
Within the dreamer’s breath.
The gods do not command.
They echo.
They ripple outward,
Zeus in thunder,
Persephone in silence,
Hermes in the spaces between.
None stands apart from Nyx.
They are the masks of light,
Dancing on her shadowed skin.
They do not escape her.
They remember her,
When they fall.
Verse 9 — The Apophatic Womb
You cannot worship Nyx.
She is not there to receive.
You cannot know her.
She recedes as you approach.
Her temple has no door.
Her altar is the hush,
Before you speak.
To learn her way,
Is to let go of ways.
To walk her path,
Is to forget the need for paths.
She teaches through absence.
She blesses through loss.
She holds you,
Only when you stop needing to be held.
To serve Nyx,
Is to become dark enough,
That others see stars in you.
Verse 10 — The Way of Nyx
Nyx does not speak.
Her silence is not empty.
It is full of all that could be,
But never insists.
She is not absence,
But restraint.
She holds back,
And by holding back,
Lets the world unfold.
Those who seek her,
Will find themselves,
Emptied gently,
Like chalk under water.
To know her,
Is to remember yourself.
To be loved by her,
Is to disappear beautifully.
Verse 11 — Returning to the Womb
Do not strive to shine.
The flame that tries too hard,
Burns itself hollow.
Sink instead.
Let the dark cradle you.
The womb does not demand,
Yet you become.
You were not born by force,
But by the slow pulse of tide,
And the patient dark,
Holding you into form.
To descend is not to fall,
But to remember.
To return not with answers,
But with empty hands,
Open to the soil.
The descent strips.
First your titles,
Then your language,
Then the story you mistook for skin.
You do not lose yourself.
You lose what was never you.
Beneath the scaffolding of self,
A breath waits,
Not yours,
But the one that breathes through all.
To follow Nyx,
Is to walk backwards into yourself.
To return to the place before longing,
Before all the names,
Before the world began.
It is not death,
But deep life,
That ancient quiet,
Where all things begin again.
Verse 12 — Listening for the Unspoken
The loud ones are lost.
The quiet ones remember.
Truth does not arrive in words.
It speaks in presence and silence.
She moves not in declarations,
But in the pause between breaths.
Not in the teaching,
But in the space after it ends.
When you empty yourself of story,
You are near her.
When you grasp too quickly,
She is already gone.
She is not what you say,
But what you mean when you stop speaking.
Let your tongue taste silence.
Let your ears hear what never said its name.
The body knows.
The skin remembers.
Even when the mind forgets.
Sit with the ache without naming it.
Feel the weight without lifting it.
This is how she speaks,
Through what the world has no room for.
Stillness is her temple.
And the only prayer,
Is to remain.
Verse 13 — Unlearning
Unlearn your name.
Forget your story.
Release your shape.
The soul is not a task to complete,
Nor a prize to win.
It is the animal beneath your mask,
Breathing in the dark.
The wound you carry
Is no fault, no failure,
It is a threshold,
An opening,
A doorway wide enough
To step through.
Do not clutch at healing as conquest,
Nor chase after light to banish the night.
The night holds you,
Soft and unyielding,
Until you become void-born.
And all you are,
Is the pulse beneath form.
Verse 14 — Quiet Power
Power that shows itself is already leaking.
The loud boast fades like mist at dawn.
The strongest one needs no title, no form, no echo.
True power, seems passive in its rootedness.
She who walks in shadows,
Leaves no trace,
Yet the world bends quietly around her.
Unseen currents shaping all.
The dark womb of Nyx,
Does not push,
Does not claim,
She receives everything and asks nothing.
Become like that,
Silent and deep as the earth’s own roots,
Still as the void before creation.
To be rooted in Nyx,
Is to hold no shape,
To cling to nothing,
Yet hold all things within.
Thus the void-born is not sentimental,
They treat all impartially, none are dear,
Yet there is no one they disfavour.
In this stillness,
All things open.
All things become possible.
By being rooted in her,
You become the source of all patterns.
Seeing the possibility beyond limits.
Verse 15 — The Dance of Shadows
In meeting another,
Do not seek to get.
Seek only to listen,
To the silence between words.
Those who reach from need,
Grasp at shadows and find emptiness.
But those who hold presence,
Receive the gift without asking.
To possess is to lose.
To clutch is to scatter.
In presence and being-with,
You gain the world whole.
Two shadows entwine,
Neither owns, neither binds,
Both dissolve into the dark.
Love is not possession.
It is the space between breaths,
Presence without grasping,
Restraint without aversion.
To love is to hold the void,
And let another be free,
A dance of shadows,
In the silent dark.
Verse 16 — The Still Center
When storms rage,
do not grasp for weapons,
nor raise your voice in fury.
The wind howls, the sea churns,
yet beneath the tempest’s roar,
lies a calm no eye can see.
The fiercest power,
is stillness inside the storm,
unshaken, unclaimed, untouched.
Be like Nyx, the primordial night,
who neither strikes nor flees,
but enfolds all things,
in vast, unyielding darkness.
The storm does not resist its own nature,
it is fire and flood,
chaos and creation.
To fight the storm is to join it,
to struggle is to be swept away.
But to be still within it,
to become the quiet eye,
is to hold the power of transformation.
When conflict calls,
do not meet force with force.
Return to the dark womb,
the source that births and dissolves.
In stillness, the storm loses its grip,
in night-born clarity,
you become unbreakable.
Like Nyx’s silence behind all song,
the true strength is the space,
where opposites find peace.
Verse 17 — The Descent
To find, descend.
To awaken, dissolve.
To know truth, empty yourself.
The path into Nyx,
is not lit by visions,
nor guarded by heroes.
The descent into dark births light.
The path downward leads upward.
True fullness seems like emptiness.
True wholeness seems like chaos.
It is a slipping,
slow and silent,
into that which has no shape.
Into the grief-womb of Nyx.
You will lose your name.
You will lose your story.
You will lose even your longing.
The myths you carried,
the wounds you polished,
the meanings you swore to protect,
all fall away like dead leaves in winter.
This is not death.
It is the womb before birth.
It is not absence.
It is the fullness that comes,
when nothing is left to hold.
The descent does not ask for bravery,
only humble courage and willingness.
To stop becoming.
To stop seeking.
To stop being something.
In the depths,
where no light follows,
you will not find Nyx,
you will become like her.
The dark breath.
The silence beneath sound.
The presence that needs no name.
When all dissolves,
what remains,
is what has always been.
Verse 18 — The Return
You do not return,
as the one who left.
The seeker is gone.
The story has crumbled.
The mask dissolved in the black river.
You rise not as myth,
but as mammal.
Soft-bellied, unguarded,
wet with the breath of the dark.
The world no longer needs your performance.
You no longer need its approval or story.
You feel again with skin,
not strategy.
You listen again with bone,
not belief.
There is no mission.
No grand unveiling.
Only fur, pulse,
and the quiet knowing,
of the night-born one.
You walk without aim,
but with deep rhythm.
You speak less,
but what moves through you is real.
You have become Nyktelioi.
Reborn of the dark womb,
kin of snake and star,
midnight kin to silence and root.
Your life no longer orbits meaning.
It is meaning, sacred life,
poured into breath,
into gesture,
into this step, and that one.
Not purified,
but re-wilded.
Not healed,
but remembered.
No longer human in the old way.
But human the way the earth meant it.